Greyhaven's palace sat in a heavy, unnatural silence.
No fanfare. No announcements. No proclamations.
Only the quiet weight of inevitability.
Aren walked through the throne room alone.
The crown gleamed under the torchlight, but it was meaningless.
Power was not in gold, jewels, or law—it was in whispers, shadows, and fear.
Rowan remained in his private chambers, a prince without command.
His advisors feared him as much as they feared the Wolf.
The walls he once commanded had turned into cages, each one silently reporting, observing, and obeying a master they could not see.
Aren rested his hand lightly on the armrest of the throne.
"The Silent Throne," he said softly.
"It is not occupied by the crown. It is occupied by fear, control, and the knowledge that no one can oppose it."
Lysa and Caelis flanked him silently.
"Every province bends. Every court fears. Every city obeys," Caelis whispered.
"Yes," Aren replied. "The throne itself does not rule—it is a symbol. The kingdom bends to the Wolf because he exists in every shadow, every whisper, every doubt."
Outside, Greyhaven's streets were empty but watched.
Every corner, every alley, every roof carried unseen eyes loyal to the Wolf.
The city itself had become his instrument.
Aren gazed from the highest tower.
"The Silent Throne is not won by sword," he murmured.
"It is won by patience, shadows, and inevitability.
And now… the kingdom is mine, completely, without a single drop of blood spilled in open war."
The crown sat gleaming, unused, while the kingdom trembled quietly under the Wolf's unseen hand.
Power had shifted. Fear had solidified. And the Silent Throne ruled not by law, but by shadow.